TASM Lab Artwork

My Art School Debacle

School, goddamit, was Western Michigan University, a large state school that people went to if they had bad grades or were poor (not like Kentucky poor, but like not can't-afford-out-of-state poor). If Harvard was first tier, and MIT second tier, and a big ticket school like Boston University or GW was third tier, and a good state school like U of M was fourth tier, then Western was like seventh. The art teachers were mostly house marms, the graphics department didn't have COMPUTERS, the acting school didn't acknowledge FILM.

I went all the same. Had a good time. My dad didn't like it, but he likes me now.

I was terrible. I was one of the best there (all due respect, there were a couple of kids who were spot on, one comes to mind, I think his name was Eric and he did a portrait of Hannible from the A-Team with meat that was great, but not many others). Most embarrassing (partly because my technique hasn't improved) is my choices of theme and subject, since I fancied myself being sad and tortured, or cleverly clever. I don't think anyone is as uselessly sad as when they are 19 years old. I think (THINK) as we get older we become old mother courages and sadness becomes another ache to add to the pile, and then perhaps multiplied when a true tragedy hits (e.g., death of a loved one, nuclear inihlation) because of how soundly profane sadnes is managed. I guess I'm (like I'm qualified) giving a trophy to all 19 year olds for being the most uselessly sad beings around (17-22 year olds are analogous, you get it too).

Mostly watercolor.

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Some of the few acrilic paintings. Surprising there are only two, as I remember painting in this shit all the time
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Underwater rescue! Gorillas! Jared!
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Pastels done in 1989-90.
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Gagless watercolor


These feature the Ubiquitous Sad Skinny Long Haired Boy (USSLHB). Although embarrassing, these pictures usually feature a mopey Overman-style Jeff that I like to visit every so often. My mother was concerned about the dead babies, thinking for sure that I was in the throws of an abortion, or a baby murderer. They all date in 1990-1991.
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This eight painting series features a transformation of Jesus, which is glaring sign of my immaturity at the time. Religion is an embarrassingly easy target to focus art upon, especially if you're trying to be cynical and irreverent. I thought it was cool at the time (19 years old), just as I think the stuff I do now is clever.
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Grandma, my sister, some peaches and a guy running
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There is a HUGE body of work I did before I was in college. These have been thrown away or stored somewhere between my divorced parents homes (my moms). There is a good reason to put them here: so I can view them myself. Maybe later. Maybe when I turn 40.